


If my complaints could passions move

by WyrmDisco



Series: Post Canon Fero [2]
Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22242589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyrmDisco/pseuds/WyrmDisco
Summary: Secret Samol 2019 -Spoilers for the end of Heiron. Set years after.Fero invites some friends to a tavern near his home, and has something to share with them.What has he been doing all this time?
Relationships: Adaire Ducarte/Adelaide Tristé/Hella Varal, Adaire Ducarte/Hella Varal, Emmanuel Aracia La Salle/Lem King, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Post Canon Fero [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1966825
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6
Collections: Secret Samol 2019





	If my complaints could passions move

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fanyelina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanyelina/gifts).



> **Prompt:**  
>  I would really like to see or read about Fero decades and decades after he leaves... sometime when they need him & look for him. or maybe even, just a random happenstance. He almost became a God, but he never did and he never wanted to, but he's powerful...& playful. Are there legends about him? This is the kind of thing I would love to see or read about!
> 
>  **Note:**  
>  There is a point where I directly describe a specific piece. If you would like to listen to it during the description, open this link in a new tab https://youtu.be/h4IzcWZiVh8 and press play when you see the *****

The Trouvère Tavern wasn't the best place for food. Tucked away in the tangled branches of the Rhizome, barely any competition in this little zone of leaves and branches. Sure, it would be quick to hop on a bug and fly to the Mink's Coat just a few miles vertical, but it is a little too far from the University for that.

 _Not that I have that particular problem_ , thought Fero Feritas, as he took another spoonful of mediocre stew into his mouth. 

_but I'm not here for the food..._

He sat alone in a large circular booth table towards the back of the tavern. Fero’s hair has become grey in places from time passing on, as time is wont to do. A green hooded cloak rested on his shoulders, handmade as all his things are and were. Laugh lines caress his face, his eyes. He is doing okay.

_I'm doing okay._

His restless feet are tapping a syncopated rhythm into the floorboards until he sees them come in:

A tall woman, solid and standing tall, looking like she hasn’t aged a day in years.  
On her arm, a shorter woman in a beautiful embroidered dress, hair tucked up into an elaborate net.  
And next to them, an orc and his boyfriend. 

_My friends!_

"Hey!" he shouted, shuffling it off his seat and up to them. Hella scooped Fero into a hug as soon as he was close enough for her still-strong arms to reach.

"Hey! It's been too long!" she laughed into his hair, taking care not to be poked by any branches hidden in the tangled mess.

"What is this place?" questioned Lem, adjusting his thick glasses to take a better look.

"OK SO-" Fero began as he led them to their table. He hurried the party past the tavern hostess, who shot them a look. Adaire gave her a wink and smiled to herself. 

"Remember when everyone at the University got really into music? Well, that got all the way out here. Further too, but it's hard to get further from here without wings- big rivers full of sap and mushroom forests with animals who don't care too much for folks. Not that I can blame them. You know, the other day I saw something I thought was a pelican but it opened its beak and inside was a frog pulling it's tongue telling it where to go-"

"Oh gross!" laughed Adaire.

"-Can you believe it? and I walked on up to him and said, you know, what the heck is your whole deal and such, and HE said-"

"Fero"

"He said, 'Well, what is YOUR deal?',"

"Fero"

"and I said, 'Well, that's a fair question. But I don't have a frog piloting me around!' and you know wh-"

"Fero!"

"What yeah?" He paused, finally hearing Lem's interjections

"Fero, they're ready to take our orders." Lem gentured to the birdish person looking at them impatiently through their customer service smile.

Everyone ordered various drinks and foods as Fero dejectedly poked at the remainder of his stew. it had long since gone fully cold. Maybe he had been anxious in arriving here far earlier than they had previously discussed. But how could it be helped? Fero’s feet tamped on the ground.

"Anyway," he continued as soon as the server had left, "it said 'How do you know?'." 

"What?" said Emmanuel, toying with a lock of Lem's hair. 

"How do you know?"

"No, no- I think he means," laughed Hella, "How do you know what?" 

"Oh. How do you know, like, how do you know you aren't being piloted by a frog?" 

"Oh now that's a good question, honey," said Emmanuel, turning to Lem, "here, open your mouth."

"What-"

Hella and Adaire burst into laughter as Emmanuel reached for Lem's chin to tilt his mouth up and open, checking for frogs. 

"Oh no! Oh no, Emmanuel, do you see it!?" shouted Fero, climbing partly onto and across the table to point at Lem's open mouth,  
"It's in there! Frog pilot!"

"Frog pilot!" choked Hella, “Wow,” she said, leaning to Adaire, “We have to tell Adelaide about this later.” 

"Lem, cmon, don't you know better?" chided Adaire, turning her head into Hella's arm to hide her smiles. "Don't you know better than to allow yourself to be piloted by a frog?"

"I am NOT-" 

"Don't worry, honey, I know the cure," said Emmanuel as he leaned in to kiss Lem on the cheek,  
"There, no more frogs." 

"Ok-ANYway-" continued Fero, "Wait what was I saying,"

"Oh hey, look who's here," said Hella with an easy smile on her face as she waved an arm at the new arrivals in the front of the tavern- Hadrian and Rosana. 

Hadrian, distracted by conversation with the hostess, did not notice her wave. Rosana put a friendly hand on her husbands’ shoulder, directed him towards the table, and they both said polite thanks to the hostess.

"Hi everyone. Wow, long time." Hadrian smiled, clapped Lem on the shoulder and gave a handshake to Emmanuel. Hella stood to embrace her oldest friend. Hadrian patted her back. Hella patted his back harder. The competition of back pats ended before it truly began, as Rosana said to everyone,

"It's so nice to see all of you! Throndir and Ephrim send their love and regards, they were so sad not to be able to come out for your... thing. Fero."

"Yeah, Fero," began Hadrian as he held out a seat for Rosana and took his own, "What are we here for? Not that I'd miss a chance to see you all, but your message just said 'an important thing.' I had assumed... Well, I don't know what I assumed." 

"Oh, I'm gonna play a song."

"Sure."

The fireflies lighting the tavern flew all at once to the stage and lit an arc above it. Only small tea candles on each table lit the rest of the room. The hostess walked onto the stage, all show, and addressed the audience.

“Thank you all for coming to our weekly music night! I’m the hostess and owner of this humble place, my name is Azalais Orange. We have a bunch of great performances lined up and remember, after the planned shows, anyone from the audience who has something prepared is welcome to come up and play a tune or read a poem or do a dance. Whatever! The only rule here at the Trouvère Tavern is to have fun and be yourself.” 

Azalais flashed a winning smile to the audience and added, with less show and more speed, “The second only rule is to finish your drink all the way before you ask for a new one we are very understaffed, thank you.”

She strode off the stage and gave a friendly pat to a young, pudgy, adolescent orc holding a small flute. The orc walked on stage with all the stiffness of a tree, and turned to face the audience,

“Hello, my name... A-As you know, is, or, as you MAY already know is Orr. My name is Orr. I play the flute. Thank you.”

Orr began to play the flute. He breathed through it to produce a loud jet whistle, and sang over tones he was playing. At times, he shouted. The harmonies were dissonant, when there were some. It was full of breath and mystery, like something from an ancient and violent time. One table in particular applauded rackously, while the rest of the tavern applauded just enough.

“I didn’t know you could do that with a flute,” said Hadrian.

“Oh, really? I did.” said Hella.

“Seriously?” 

“No,” she laughed.

Hella’s smile could light up a room, even when all the fireflies had flown to the front in order to set the stage for the next couple performers- a young band all holding gourds of various sizes which were decorated with beads woven around them.

“Oh, these guys are really good,” said Fero excitedly, gesturing for everyone to listen, “They think everything is music.”

“Hello,” said the frontman of the band, “We are the Lively Gourds and we think everything is music. Please talk over us, if you can.”

Low, mellow thumping came from the gourds as they were hit in polyrhythm on stage. As the gourds were moved, the skirt of beads hit the outside of the gourd and created a scratching sound. The music was as if the tavern was filled by an organized rain storm. In the audience, many hesitated against better politeness. One of those people was Hadrian.

“Should we really talk?” He whispered, “Didn’t they work hard on this?”

“Oh, don’t be such a frog pilot, Hadrian.” Hella replied, patting him on the back.

“Yeah! Don’t be. Such. A. frooooog pi-lot,” rapped Fero in rhythm to the shaking beads and drummed gourds. 

“A frog pilot?” mumbled Hadrian as Lem began his questioning.

“Fero, you’re going to play a song? Since when? You play instruments?”

“Yeah, I play an instrument. Just one, sort of. I like to play an instrument.”

“You mean you play an instrument,” corrected Adaire matter-of-factly.

“Yeah.”

“Oh!” joined in Hella, “Which one?”

“Guitar.”

“Oh,” said no one in particular.

“Yeah, it’s. It’s good. Well, I mean, it’s been like 15 years? So, I’m actually kind of good. But these people, you’ll see, some of these people have their heads so far up their butts about the dumbest stuff.”

“Your head isn’t up your butt?” asked Adaire.

“Of course not.”

The Lively Gourds stopped playing their instruments, and in a brief and beautiful moment, the cadence of the speaking in the tavern replicated their rhythms before fading back into cacophony. Two of the gourdists high-fived. The band took a bow before the audience had noticed they finished. They were applauded when the bass gourdist tripped on the last step, causing several patrons to notice they had existed the stage and start clapping.

Fero clapped the loudest. 

“I love those guys.”

A tall, thin man took the stage. 

“I hate this guy.” 

The man adjusted his glasses and spoke.

“Greetings. I am Hampton and I’m going to read you my poem of when I was Saved, and as always, if you know the person of whom I am speaking, please do not hesitate to contact me at the following locations.” 

Hampton gestured to a prop he had set on the stage, a sign reading:

Hampton  
Tesday-Oteday  
10am-5pm, Whittle Woodwork  
Kinday-Sunday  
Home by the small pond and large frog

“Hey, so this guy’s got a frog, too?” said Hadrian to Hella, “What is it with this place and frogs today?”  
“Oh my gosh”

Hampton continued, “Without further ado. The Birds Who Saved Me. 

“I stood upon a river  
Not a stone’s throw from my home  
Down my spine, I felt a shiver  
Though not a light had shone

For it was night, it was dark  
And naught was out to play

But I saw, I saw them  
The birds who saved me that day.

The enemy was nigh, though its scent I could not parse  
I slipped and fell into the dark  
Broke my ankle on the carse.

And then I heard it, snarling,  
Growling, Voracious, Prowling,  
Some monster in the darkness  
Smelling of a primrose evening

And that’s when they flew by  
Crows by twelve and seven, or  
Ravens, magpies, hawks  
Their numbers could not be counted  
Those who saved me in the dark

The creature ran, wounded,  
It could only flee,  
And the birds nested altogether  
By the river next to me

And the birds became something new  
Something I had never thought to be  
The birds became a sort of rabbit  
It licked my bones, healed me.

That rabbit became a bird once more,  
A different one than before  
It flew away before I could say  
Thank you, to the God who saved me.”

Many in the audience applauded as Hampton continued to say a few things on stage. Fero had gradually shrunk into his seat, his eyebrows cross. His legs tapped faster and louder than before.

“Hey, Fero,” started Lem.

“Don’t.”

“No, look, Lem’s right-”

“Hella, I said don’t.”

“Fero,” said Rosana, “Did you rescue that man?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have to be so annoying about it! The God that saved him? Geez, give me a break. I should’ve let that moss alligator eat him.” Fero crossed his arms tighter. “Listen, guys I would NOT have invited you if I knew this idiot and his crew would be here.”

“Oh, that was about you?” said Hadrian.

“He has a crew?” asked Adaire at the same time.

“Yeah, they’re up there now.”

The stage now had a small line- four or five people- holding little written letters. The one speaking currently is describing a time when she was rescued by a man on a horse who could not hold a conversation, who she was certain was the same being that had saved Hampton. When she finished, the person after her described a time they were guided out of a forest by two small sparrows, and lead to a pond to refill their canteen. Every person had a story.

“Fero,” said Emmanuel kindly and softly, “You’re a hero to these people.”

“I’m no hero, I did what anybody would do.”

Hella smiled. She knew by now that Fero was not someone who wanted this kind of attention.

“You did a bunch of good things,” Rosana reached across Hadrian to pat Fero on the head, “I’m proud of you. And now you have to play a guitar.”

“Oh shi-” 

Fero scrambled from his seat in the midst of his friends, under the table, and emerged on the other side holding a woven guitar case.  
“Well. Don’t laugh.” He said before heading to the stage.

He dragged a small stool to the front, and opened his case. He brought out a small stump, atop which he placed his left foot. And then he had his guitar.

“My name,” he said to the audience, “Does not matter. Please listen.”

And he began to play.

*****

The Passacaglia began as all do, with a statement of the few notes which make up the musical theme. It was a slow, descending ostinato played on the lowest strings. Ornamentation in higher pitches began to arise. The fingerpicking became more consistent, and chords came forward to contextualize the music. 

It was beautiful. It was melancholic. Suddenly, it became softer, the rhythm changed interestingly- though always rescued from becoming too complex by the interjection of the ostinato.

The beginning of the theme became more and more glissed, as soon the music changed to something vaguely atonal. High pitches and artificial harmonics chirped out like a bird telling a joke.

And the chords were back. And the theme was back. 

Now, harmonized.  
Played in sequence.  
Played in augmentation, rising higher than it had before.

And back to the low, soft pitches. 

Fero’s playing became so quiet, the audience leaned in to hear him.  
It was a calm many would have said Fero did not know, and a quieting of the rebels in him. He had learned this from the mountains.

The guitar sang a beautiful, old tune- something everyone swore they’d heard before. Fero closed his eyes and delivered to them a song which sounds like deliverance and a final calming down by the coming oblivion, falling asleep.

And then it was over.

It would have made him so proud.  
\---

They arrived back at his hollow, too small for them to fit inside, and sat amidst the moss- bellies full, smiles on their faces, happy.

Fero sank back into the moss, and rested his head on Hella’s shoulder. Hadrian was telling a story with a soft voice and tears in his eyes about some recent achievement of Benjamin’s. Adaire was asleep on Hella’s other side. Lem and Emmanuel, unable to stay the night, had hugged Fero and congratulated him before they left. 

_Yeah_ , Thought Fero to himself as he drifted to sleep, _I’m doing okay._

\---

It took a couple more performances for the younger kids to start approaching him. It didn’t help that he never told anyone his name.  
But they wanted to learn guitar, too. And they wanted to collaborate.

And who was Fero to turn away those looking to make something new?

**Author's Note:**

> It was a lot of fun writing this!  
> If you'd like to follow me on social media, my public art twitter is @jarofbees1 and my personal twitter is @wyrmdisco 
> 
> References:  
> The title is a reference to a song of the same title by John Dowland. It can be listened to here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z2K6c8Pk8Tw
> 
> This piece- “Voice” for solo flute by Toru Takemitsu- contains examples of the flute techniques I describe:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DN2ZitujV3g
> 
> The gourd instruments that the Lively Gourds are described as having are called Shakere. Here is a video about them:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnE50Ho7RYM  
> Here is an ensemble demonstration:  
> https://youtu.be/XIMcbVUW4ck
> 
> The guitar piece I directly describe is the IIX and IX movements of Benjamin Brittan’s “Nocturnal for John Dowland” played here by the guitarist for whom it was written: https://youtu.be/h4IzcWZiVh8
> 
> My description of the piece is, at times, inspired by the essay on its contents “Melancholy in the Music of John Dowland and Benjamin Brittan” written by David Kozel, which can be read for free here:  
> https://tinyurl.com/wyad5rm
> 
> Other guitar pieces I considered referencing, if you are interested:
> 
> Requerdos de la Alhambra by Francisco Tarrega, performed here by Ana Vidovic:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwjX-m4LkYk
> 
> Etude 11 by Heitor Villa-Lobos, performed here by Julian Bream  
> https://youtu.be/r21WDZ4-eUI


End file.
